H.R. dressed to resemble an undertaker, but wearing a beautiful orchid to show he did not do it for a living, called a taxicab, drove to the Diocesan House and sent in his card to the Bishop of New York.

The Bishop was a judge of cards. He therefore received H.R. in his study instead of the general waiting-room of which the decorative scheme consisted of "In His Name" in old English and therefore safe from perusal. It might as well have been, "Be Brief!"

"How do you do, Bishop Phillipson?" And H.R. held out his hand with such an air of affectionate respect that the Bishop was sure he had confirmed this distinguished-looking young man.

But the head of the diocese has to know more than theology. Therefore the Bishop answered, very politely:

"I am very well, thank you."

"Did you recognize the name?" modestly asked H.R.

"Oh yes," said the Bishop, who recently had read about some meeting in Rutgers Square and therefore remembered Rutgers.

He was a fine figure of a man with clean-cut features and a look of kindliness so subtly professional as to keep it from being indiscriminatingly benevolent; a good-natured man rather than a strong. One might imagine that he made friends easily, but none could visualize him as a Crusader. He was cursed with an orator's voice, sensitive ears, and the love of words.

"Perhaps you've read the newspapers? They've been full of me and my doings these many weeks," said H.R., looking intently at the Bishop.

"My dear boy!" expostulated Dr. Phillipson.

"I need your help!" said H.R., very earnestly.

The Bishop knew it! Those to whom you cannot give cheering words and fifty cents are the worst cases. To relieve physical suffering is far easier than to straighten out those tangles that society calls disreputable—after they get into print.

H.R. went on, "I want you to help me to help our church."

"Help you to help our church?" blankly repeated the Bishop. The unexpected always reduces the expectant kind to a mere echo.

"Exactly!" And H.R. nodded congratulatorily. "Exactly! In order that we may stop losing ground!"

There were so many ways in which this young man's words might be taken that his mission remained an exasperating mystery. But the Bishop smiled with the tolerance of undyspeptic age toward over-enthusiastic youth and said kindly:

"Pardon me, but—"

"Pardon me," interrupted H.R., "but since it is only the Roman Catholics who are growing—"

"Our figures—" interjected the Bishop, firmly.

"Ah yes, figures of speech. Don't apply to our church. The reason is that the Catholics leave out the possessive pronoun. They never say their church any more than they say their God. Now, why did we build our huge Cathedral?"

The Bishop stared at H.R. in astonishment. Then he answered, austerely, confining himself to the last question:

"In order to glorify—"

"Excuse me. There already existed the Himalayas. The real object of building cathedrals hollow, I take it, is to fill 'em with the flesh of living people. Otherwise we would have made sarcophagi. We Protestants don't bequeath our faith to our posterity; only our pews. They are to-day empty. Hence my business. I, Bishop Phillipson, am a People-Getter."

"You are what?" The Bishop did not frown; his amazement was too abysmal.

"I fill churches. Since this is really a family affair, let us be frank. Of course, you could fill 'em with paper—"

"Paper?"

"Theatrical argot for deadheads, Bishop; people who don't pay, but contribute criticisms of the show. I am here to tell you how to go about the job efficiently."

H.R.'s manner was so earnest, it so obviously reflected his desire to help, that the Bishop could not take offense at the young man's intentions. The words, however, were so much more than offensive that the Bishop said, with cold formality:

"You express yourself in such a way—"

"I'll tell you the reason. Deeds never convert until they are talked about. Dynamic words are needed. Ask any business man. I have made a specialty of them. I may add that I am not interested in making money, only in efficiency!"

The Bishop saw plainly that this well-dressed young man with the keen eyes and the resolute chin was neither a lunatic nor an impostor. Therefore the Bishop instantly realized that the young man could not help the Church and equally that the Church could not help the young man. Further talk was a waste of time.

"I fear this discussion is fruitless—"

"I wasn't discussing; I was asserting. I am the man who is going to marry Grace Goodchild—"

The Bishop straightened in his chair and looked at H.R. with a new and more personal interest.

"Indeed!" he said, so humanly that it sounded like "Do tell!" Grace was one of his flock. He remembered now that his friends the Goodchilds had been in print lately and that editorials had been written about the young man who proposed to marry the only daughter.

"I promised Grace that I would help our Church—"

To the Bishop these words, which the young man had used before, now had a different meaning. It was no longer an utter stranger, but an eccentric acquaintance; a character, as characterless people call them.

"Yes?" And the Bishop listened attentively.

"I've doped it out—" pursued H.R., earnestly.

"I beg your pardon?" said the Bishop and blushed.

"I have arrived at a logical conclusion," translated H.R. "In short, I have found what will put Episcopalians, Presbyterians, Methodists, Lutherans, Jews, Parsees, and native-born Americans on the Christian map of New York. And it will not necessitate turning the unoccupied churches into restaurants or vaudeville shows."

H.R. turned his hypnotic look full on the Bishop, who read therein the desire to do.

"Thus must have looked HILDEBRAND!" thought the Bishop, in Roman capitals, in spite of himself. On second thought he remembered to characterize the language of Grace Goodchild's fiancÉ as "bizarre." Experience teaches that it is wisdom to encourage good intentions. This is done by listening.

Since the Bishop was now obviously glad to listen, H.R. said, more earnestly than ever:

"Tell me, Bishop, what is it that is desirable to possess and more desirable to give, elevating, rare beyond words, thrice blessed, and beautiful as heaven itself?"

"Truth!" exclaimed the Bishop, his voice ringing with conviction and the pride of puzzle-solving. Being a human being, he had answered promptly.

H.R. shook his head and smiled forgivingly: "That's only theology; possibly metaphysics. Forget rhetoric and get down to cases. Truth! Pshaw! Can you imagine that combination of four consonants and one vowel serving as a political platform or included in any live concern's instructions to salesmen? Never! No, sir. Guess again! I've found it. Rare, picturesque, with great dramatic possibilities and easy to capitalize. It is—"

He paused and looked at the Bishop. The Bishop returned the look fascinatedly. This young man was from another world. What would he say next? And what would whatever he said mean?

"Charity!" exclaimed H.R., proudly.

The Bishop's face fell. You almost heard it.

H.R. shook a rigid forefinger at the Bishop's nose and said, in a distinctly vindictive voice:

"'But the greatest of these is charity'!"

"We always preach—" began the Bishop, defensively.

"That's the trouble. Don't! We'll tackle charity by easy steps. We'll begin by the very lowest form, in order to break in American Christians gradually. Feeding the hungry is spectacular and leads to the higher forms. Show people that you will not only fill their bellies, but send the caterer's bills direct to the Lord for payment, and the populace will supply not only the food-receptacles, but the stationery. A great deal," finished H.R., reflectively, "depends upon the right stationery."

"I fear," said the Bishop, uncomfortably, "that we are talking to each other across an impassable gulf."

"Not a bit, Bishop. The human intellect, properly directed, can bridge any chasm. Let us be philosophical." H.R. said this as one who proposes to speak in words of one syllable. "Now, good people—I don't mean you, Bishop; you know: good people!—always do everything wrong end foremost. Now, what do you, speaking collectively, do to feed the hungry?"

"We support St. George's Kitchens—"

"Ah yes, you astutely work to eliminate poverty by tackling the poor, instead of operating on the rich. You give tickets to the hungry! Think of it—to the hungry! Tickets! A green one means a bowl of pea soup; a pink one, a slice of ham; a brown one, a codfish ball. The polychromatics of systematized charity whereby you discourage the increase of a professional pauper class! Tickets! To the hungry! Ouch!"

The Bishop more than once had despaired of solving that very problem. He shook his head sadly rather than rebukingly and said, "I have no doubt that you are a very remarkable young man and very up to date and very hopeful, but in a huge city like New York how can any one solve the problem of helping everybody who really needs—"

"By using brains, Bishop Phillipson," cut in H.R., so sternly that the Bishop flushed. But before his anger could crystallize, H.R. continued, challengingly: "Who in New York are in need of charity? Five thousand empty bellies? No. Five million empty souls!"

It was a striking figure of speech. Before the Bishop could say anything H.R. went on, very politely:

"Will you oblige me by torturing the ears?"

"Torturing the ears?" echoed the Bishop in a daze.

"Yes; by listening. Do you hear"—H.R. pointed to a corner of the room—"do you hear a voice from heaven saying, 'Let them that hunger bring a physician's certificate of protracted inanition? You don't? Then there's hope. What I propose to do, Bishop, is to revolutionize the industry." H.R. spoke so determinedly that the Bishop could not help forgetting everything else and asking:

"How?"

"By giving the ticket to the full belly; not to the empty. We utilize the machinery already in existence, but the ticket goes to the man who pays twenty-five cents, not to the man who needs or accepts the quarter's worth of food. There are people who would compel a fellow-man made by God after His image to convert himself into a first-trip-to-Europe dress-suit case and paste labels all over himself: Pauper! Hungry! Wreck! My tickets will be precious tags marked: Charitable! Decent! Christian! I accomplish this by giving to the giver! Success is a matter of labels."

"But I can't see—"

"My dear Bishop, everybody acknowledges that it is much nicer to give to those you love than to receive. That is why we are exhorted to love our fellows—that we may love to give to them. It follows that everybody at heart likes to be charitable. Vanity was invented pretty early in history. But it has not been properly capitalized by the Churches. Now, listen to the difference when real brains are used. Remember that though all is vanity, vanity is not all. Each person who gives twenty-five cents receives a ticket. Since he lives in America, he gets something for something! I have planned a mammoth hunger feast in Madison Square Garden. Each donor from his seat will see with his own eyes a fellow-man eat his quarter."

"But, my dear Mr. Rutgers—"

"I am glad you see it as I do. The ticket-buyer goes to the Garden. He knows his ticket is feeding one man. But he sees ten thousand men eating. He looks for the particular beneficiary of his particular quarter. It might be any one of the ten thousand eaters! Within thirty-seven seconds each donor will feel that his twenty-five cents is feeding the entire ten thousand! Did a quarter of a dollar ever before accomplish so much? Of anybody else," finished H.R., modestly, "I would call that genius!"

The Bishop shook his head violently.

"Do you mean to treat it as a spectacle—"

"What else was the Crucifixion to the priests of the Temple?" asked H.R., sternly.

The Bishop waved away with his hand and said, decidedly:

"No! No! Would you compel starving men—"

"To eat?" cut in H.R.

"No; to parade their needs, to vulgarize charity and make it offensive, a stench in the nostrils of self-respecting—"

"Hold on! Charity, reverend sir, is never offensive. The attitude of imperfectly Christianized fellow-citizens makes it a disgrace to show charity, but not to display poverty. The English-speaking races, being eminently practical, lay great stress upon table manners. They treat charity as if it were a natural function of man, and therefore to be done secretly and in solitude. Our cultured compatriots invariably confound modesty with the sense of smell. Etiquette is responsible for infinitely greater evils than vulgarity. Feed the hungry. When you do that you obey God. Feed them all!"

"But—"

"That is exactly what I propose to do—with your help: feed all the starving men in New York. Has anybody ever before tried that? All the starving men!" He finished, sternly, "Not one shall escape us!"

The Bishop almost shuddered, there was so grimly determined a look on H.R.'s face. Then as his thoughts began to travel along their usual channel he felt vexed. He had patiently endured the disrespectful language of a young man whose point of view differed so irritatingly from that of the earnest men who were laboring to solve the problem. All he had heard was confusing talk, words he could not remember, but left a sting. Time had been spent to no purpose.

"I still," said the Bishop with an effort, "do not see how you solve the problem that has baffled our best minds."

"Nobody else could do it," acknowledged H.R., simply. "But I have carefully prepared my plans. They cannot fail. And now you will give me your signature."

"My signature to what?" asked the Bishop in the tone of voice in which people usually say, "Never!" He felt that the interview was ended. A suspicion flashed in his mind that this young man might reply, "To a check!" But he paid H.R. the compliment of instantly dismissing the suspicion. This was, alas! no common impostor.

"To an appeal to New York's better nature," said H.R., enthusiastically. "The masses always follow the classes; if they didn't there wouldn't be classes. Mr. Wyman, of the National Bank of the Avenue, will act as treasurer."

It was the fashionable bank. Stock in demand at seventy-two hundred dollars a share, and all held by Vans.

"Has he—"

"He will," interrupted H.R. so decisively that the Bishop forgot to be annoyed at not being allowed to finish his question. "We shall appeal to all New-Yorkers. Your name must therefore lead the signatures. Much, Bishop Phillipson, depends upon the leader! Of course there will be other clergymen, and leading merchants, and capitalists, and the mayor, and the borough presidents, and the reform leaders, and everybody who is Somebody. They must give the example. Do you not constantly endeavor, yourself, to be an example, reverend sir?"

Before the Bishop could deny this H.R. gave into his hands a book beautifully bound in hand-tooled morocco. The leaves were vellum. On the first page was artistically engrossed:

Hunger knows no denomination.

There must not be starving men, women, or children in New York.

We who do not hunger must feed those who do.

LET US FEED ALL THE HUNGRY!

"Here, Bishop Phillipson, is the place at the head of the list. It will be signed by men and women whose names stand for Achievement, Fame, and Disinterestedness."

H.R. held a fountain-pen before him and pursued: "If you sign, I'll feed all the hungry—all! Have you ever seen a starving man? Do you know what it is to be hungry?"

The Bishop shook his head at the fountain-pen. He had seen starving men, but he had read about signatures. He could not officially sanction a plan of which he knew so little. No grown man can say that he did not know what he was signing.

"Listen!" commanded H.R., sternly. "Do you hear your Master's voice?"

"Your intentions, I make no doubt, are highly praiseworthy. But your language is so close to blasphemy...."

"All words that invoke God in unrhymed English are so regarded in the United States. Grace would have it that you would sign in Chinese if by so doing it fed the hungry. 'But the greatest of these is charity.' The reporters are waiting for the list. Everybody else will sign if you head the list."

"Of course." And the Bishop's voice actually betrayed the fact that he had been forced into self-defense. "Of course. I should be only too glad to sign if I were certain such an action on my part would actually feed the hungry—"

"All the hungry," corrected H.R.

"Even a tenth of the hungry of New York," the Bishop insisted. "But, my dear young man, excellent intentions do not always succeed. Your methods might not commend themselves to men who have made this work the study of a lifetime."

"They have not gone about their work intelligently, for there are still unfed men in New York. I am a practical man, not a theorist. Emotions, respected sir, are all very well to appeal to at vote-getting times, but they are poor things to think with. Now I don't suppose I have devoted more than one hour's thought to this subject, and yet see the difference. All the hungry!" In H.R.'s voice there was not the faintest trace of self-glorification nor did his manner show the slightest vanity. Both were calmly matter-of-fact. The Bishop had to have an explanation. So he asked:

"And your—er—quite unemotional and sudden interest in this—er—affair, Mr. Rutgers...."

"You mean, where do I come in?" cut in H.R.

The Bishop almost blushed as he shook his head and explained:

"Rather, your motive in undertaking so difficult...."

"Oh yes. You mean, why?"

"Yes," said the Bishop, and looked at H.R. full in the eyes.

"Because I desire to marry Grace Goodchild and I wish to be worthy of her. It is a man's job to jolt New York into a spasm of practical Christianity."

The Bishop smiled. After all, this was a boy, and his enthusiasm might make up for what his motive lacked in profundity of wisdom.

"And besides," went on H.R., in a lowered voice, "I hate to think that men can starve when I have enough to eat without earning my food." He smiled shamefacedly.

"My boy!" cried the Bishop, and shook the boy's hand warmly, "I'm afraid you are—"

"Don't call me good, Bishop!"

"I was going to say it, but I won't. Do you think you can do what you propose?"

"I know it!" And H.R. looked at Dr. Phillipson steadily.

The Bishop looked back. He was no match for H.R.

"I will sign!" said the Bishop.

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